University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Major Lawson cherished hopes that he
should be able to palaver General Johnson
into some peaceful accommodation of the
difficulty between Tom Beaumont and
Frank McAlister.

But the General had an instinctive feeling,
which he had greatly strengthened by
venerable sanguinary experience, to the
effect that accommodations not preceded by
gunpowder are a disgrace to high-toned humanity,
and not to be agreed to by any
right-minded second. In duelling matters
he was on his familiar hunting-grounds, and
easily an overmatch for a novice in the intricate,
tremendous chase. Moreover, one
babbler is, as a rule, quite able to take care
of another; and even the Major was not a
longer winded creature than the old stump
orator. Thus the latter had his own sweet
will, courteously balked all attempts at

effecting a reconciliation, and serenely
brought the two parties face to face.

An “oldfield,” — that is, a deserted clearing,
a plot of land once alive to humanity,
and now dead, a few acres gone utterly barren
except for weeds, bushes, and dwarf
pines, — an oldfield, some four or five miles
from the village, was the place of meeting.
Anxious for decorum even in homicide, and
perhaps more especially in homicide, the
General had made the arrangements with
able secrecy, so as totally to baffle the curiosity
of the loungers of Hartland. The
only persons present were the principals,
the seconds, Dr. Mattieson, a Dr. McAuley,
two negro coachmen, and two negro servants;
these four last, by the way, being as
cheerfully interested in the occasion as if
they were full-blooded white men of the
highest toned origin and habits. The rising
sun was just beginning to steal through
the stunted trees and burnish to splendor
the drops of dew upon the starveling grass.
The ground was so staked out as that the
life-giving light should not dazzle the eyes of
either of the men upon whom it now shone
for perhaps the last time.

Major Lawson, looking very ghastly and
piteous, as if he were about to plead for his
own further existence, walked hastily up to
that red-eyed destiny, Johnson, and muttered
a few words in such an agitated tone
that they were incomprehensible.

“I beg your pardon?” inquired the tranquil
General. “I am obliged to reply that
I did not understand you, — my hearing,
Major,” explained the polite old fellow,
whose senses were as acute as those of a
young squirrel.

“Hem!” uttered the Major, vehemently
clearing his throat, for he was both ashamed
of his agitation and eager to speak. “I was
taking the liberty, my very dear General,
to suggest that it is not too late to — in fact
to prevent bloodshed. To prevent bloodshed,”
he repeated, trying to soften Johnson
with a smile and an inflection.

The General, in spite of his habitual urbanity,
looked frankly annoyed, not to say
disgusted.

“Major, have you anything to propose
on the part of your principal?” he asked
dryly.

“In case of regrets — of a sufficient apology,”
stammered Lawson, not knowing how
to proceed, and fearing lest he had already
said more than the code justified.

“Bless me, no,” smiled the relieved General,
who had absolutely feared a withdrawal
of the challenge, although the scandal did
not really seem possible. “My dear Major,
I am happy to say — I mean I am sincerely
and singularly grieved to state —
that I have no authority to offer an apology.
As for submitting the idea to my principal,
I should not dare do it at this late moment.
In my opinion it would be trespassing upon
his liberty of action. But, bless me, Major!
why, you are suffering, you are pale. Don't
trouble yourself to explain. I understand
it all. You are weighed upon by your sense
of responsibility. Cheer up, sir,” exhorted
the friendly General, nobly taking Lawson's
hand. “You have done your whole duty as
a gentleman and a Christian. Your philanthropic
and humane conduct claims and obtains
my sincere admiration. Let me assure
you that you may make your remaining
preparations with a conscience as clear as
heaven's own azure.” After gazing for a
moment with blear-eyed ecstasy into the
blue ethereal above, he added briskly, —
“Well, let us hasten. These suspenses are
trying. Moreover, we must avoid interruptions;
they are always causes of scandal.
Receive my thanks, Major, for your humane
suggestion, and my regrets that I cannot
avail myself of it.”

With a profound bow the Major tottered
away, muttering to himself, “Bloodthirsty
old beast!”

Altogether the most excited, anxious, and
alarmed man on the ground was John Lawson.
He was face to face with a monstrous
event, with the grandest ceremony of the
knightly society in which he had been bred,
with an instant question of life and death.
He felt as if he were being presented at
court, and also as if he were about to commit
murder. Great responsibilities and duties
weighed upon him; he must fight his
man well, and he must load a pistol. These
things, too, these tremendous courtesies, and
this momentous business, he must undertake
for the first time; and, to complete his embarrassment,
he must undertake them in the
presence of a man who knew everything,
while he knew nothing. Every step that
he took, however carefully premeditated,
might be an outrageous blunder in the eyes
of that critical, cool, abominable old Johnson.

But Lawson's greatest trouble was lest
somebody should be shot. If that happened,
how could he ever sleep again, or be
happy while awake? Especially if Frank
McAlister should fall, never more to rise,
how would matters stand with social, softhearted
John Lawson? Would his pet,
Kate Beaumont, or even his old friend Kershaw,
ever forgive him? The Major would
have given his worldly estate to have the
loading of both weapons, so that he might
charge them with nothing but the softest,
downiest wadding. He wished that he had
the courage to submit to his principal that
it would be well to fire over the head of the
other principal. Meanwhile he was loading
his pistol with great difficulty, for his eyes
were dim with lack of sleep the night previous,

and his hands were so shaky that he
dropped several caps before he got one on
the nipple.

“Rough business being roused out so
early in the morning, is n't it, Major?” said
Tom Beaumont in such a cheerful, cheering
voice, that Lawson turned to stare at the
youngster.

Tom appeared as a Beaumont should on
such an occasion; he lounged easily about,
and he had a pretty good color in his
cheeks. He had come to the field in a
proud spirit, determined to do himself and
his family honor. He had been so fearful
that he should look pale at the scratch, that
he had washed his face repeatedly in cold
water before leaving home, and finally had
given it a rubbing with spirits of hartshorn.

But although Tom was resolved to behave
manfully in this his first duel, he somehow
did not find himself bloodthirsty nor
even very pugnacious. The near prospect
of death had softened his spirit, and made
him almost forgive his antagonist. He had
come to remember with gentleness and with
something like gratitude the family obligation
to this Frank McAlister. By moments
he considered the propriety of firing at least
one shot in the air, and very nearly decided
that he ought so to do. This gentle change
in his feelings he only revealed to others by
a single phrase, which was so ill understood
that it was afterwards credited to him as a
jest.

“By heavens,” he muttered, glancing
with a half-smile at his tall antagonist, “if I
wanted to shoot over his head, I could n't.”

Frank McAlister never once looked at
Tom. The lofty, grand monument of a fellow
stood perfectly quiet, with his arms
folded, his head bent, and his eyes on the
ground. He was engaged in an obstinate
struggle to fix his mind entirely, steadily,
and to the last on Kate Beaumont. He
had passed the night mainly in carrying on
this struggle. He had not slept, except in
brief dozings. On awaking from each, his
first thought had been the duel; no, it had
not been so much a thought as a vague foreboding,
— an uncertain, sombre consciousness
of peril. In the very next breath came
a recollection of Kate and a renewal of the
effort to settle his soul upon her alone. She
had not answered his letters; she had
doubtless condemned him because of his
father and his family; she had condemned
him, without a hearing, to be separated from
her forever; he knew, or thought he knew,
all that. Never mind; he would love her
still, make her the whole of what life remained
to him, think steadily of her and of
nothing but her. Thus had he passed the
night, striving to reach her through enemies
and circumstances; and now, in the near
presence of death, he was continuing the
same pathetic, agonized battle. His constant
pleading was, “Let me die, conscious
of her alone.”

Of a sudden the sun, stealing under the
branches of a young pine, smote upon his
eyes and summoned him to face another
thought. In spite of his wrestling to cling
to the beloved object which was to him
nearly all of earth, he remembered and
realized the awful solemnity of that transit
which he was near to making. He felt that
he must appeal for strength and comfort to
a higher power than any human being.
Wrong as he was, he dared to pray, or
rather he dared not refrain from praying.
An irresistible pressure was upon him, and
all in the direction of prayer. It did not
command him to repent, but merely to ask
forgiveness and help. It was the hurried
instinct of a swimmer overwhelmed by billows
and dragged deathward. Without a
lifting of the eyes or even a moving of the
lips, there passed through his mind something
like the following words:—

“O Father in heaven, I am here by my
own folly and wickedness. But I am
broken-hearted, and long to die. Give me
strength to bear the deserved stroke;
strength to bear wounds, suffering, and
death. Pardon me for rushing upon my
fate. Thou knowest what a burden has
fallen upon me. Forgive me for sinking
under it. Help here, and mercy in eternity.”

You can judge of the keenness of a sorrow
which had thus far unseated a strong
reason; you can guess at the depth of a
despair which had thus swallowed up a
Christian education. We have no excuses
to offer for what he himself confessed to be
folly and wickedness. We only say that
he should be considered as temporarily insane
with broken hopes and blighted affection.

His prayer uttered, he felt strengthened.
It was a moment incredible to such as have
not passed through similar trials. He calmly
advanced to meet death by the help of a
woman whom he had lost and a Creator whom
he had disobeyed. Impossible as it was,
these two sustained him. There was on his
face an expression which was almost a smile
as he took the loaded pistol from his alert,
uncomprehending, heartless second. Supported,
yes, and cheered by his illusions, he
walked to his post of fate and waited. His
eyes were fixed dreamily on the ground;
he still would not look at his adversary.

There was a short silence. Lawson,
trembling visibly all over, turned away his
face and then shaded it with one hand,
longing to cover it altogether. The steady
old Johnson, in a firm, clear, shrill voice,
called: “Gentlemen! Are you ready?
One, two, three. Fire!”

Two reports answered. Each of the combatants
kept his position. The tragedy had
crashed by harmlessly.

At the sound of the pistols Major Lawson
wheeled as quickly as if he had been hit,
and made a step or two toward Frank McAlister.
Then, remembering himself and
seeing his favorite standing, he hurried to
his own principal.

“What the deuce did he fire in the air
for?” at once demanded Tom.

“Did he?” inquired the amazed Major.
“Why, of course he did,” he immediately
added, recovering his presence of mind.
“The ball passed thirty feet over your
head.”

“I did n't hit him?” were Tom's next
words, in a tone of inquiry.

Lawson glared over his shoulder in alarm,
and then said with a sigh of undisguisable
relief, “It appears not.”

“There 's no pluck in firing at a man
who won't fire back,” Tom quickly added.

Lawson silently grasped the youth's hand
and pressed it warmly.

“It seems a little like mere murder,” continued
Tom. “What do you say?”

“Noble young man!” murmured the
Major. “Noble, gallant, chivalrous young
man!” he continued, with real and profound
feeling. “Mr. Beaumont, you honor
your race. Shall I say — shall I have the
great pleasure of saying — that you demand
no further satisfaction? You may properly
direct me to say it. My dear, noble, distinguished
young friend, you may feel entirely
justified in directing it.”

“Ye—s,” drawled Tom, after a moment
of reflection which was torture to Lawson.
“Only I won't shake hands. I 'll have
another fire first. He may go this time, but
I won't shake hands.”

“Noble young man!” sang the Major
(though with less fervor than before), as he
turned to meet General Johnson.

That veteran swashbuckler did not look
gratified, nor hardly amiable. He had
noted with dissatisfaction that his man had
fired in the air and he was in chivalrous
anxiety lest the duel might be closed by
that mistaken act of magnanimity, unparalleled
in the history of his own personal
combats.

“I have the honor to inquire whether
your principal demands any further satisfaction?”
he said with a succinctness and
grimness quite foreign to his Ciceronian
habits.

“We demand nothing more, sir,” replied
Lawson, bowing and smiling, exasperatingly
sweet. “The magnanimous and chivalrous
conduct of your principal induces us to terminate
the combat.”

The General was somewhat mollified. A
compliment to his principal was precious to
him; it was a flattery which he had a right
to share.

“Allow me to express to you my admiration
for the gallantry and the knightly
bearing of your principal,” he responded in
his stateliest way. Then, in a more familiar
tone, “Noble young fellows, both of them,
Lawson. Noble boys, by gad.”

“Certainly,” coincided the Major, warmly.
“Johnson, we are honored in serving
them. Honored, General, honored.”

“Yes, sir,” affirmed the General, with an
emphasis rarely equalled, at least in this
world.

“My principal only ventures to claim
one reservation,” added Lawson, apologizing
for the claim with bow and smile. “He
declines a formal reconciliation, — the usual
shaking of hands, General, — nothing but
that.”

“Ah, indeed,” replied Johnson, smiling
also, for he saw a chance to continue the
duel. “Excuse me, my very dear Major,
but that is a matter which requires consideration.”

“The political antagonism of the families,
you remember,” ventured to suggest
the newly alarmed Lawson. “Reasons of
state, if I may venture to use the expression.
No personal feeling, I assure you.
Dear me, no.”

“I shall take great pleasure in laying the
matter before my principal and requesting
his decision,” returned the diplomatic Johnson.

Frank McAlister, expecting nothing less
than another exchange of shots, had resumed
his struggle to think of no other thing
on earth than Kate Beaumont, and was
standing with arms folded, brows fixed,
eyes drooped, unconscious of all around
him.

“Shake hands?” he said dreamily, when
he at last caught the meaning of the General's
elaborate statement of the fresh difficulty.
“Of course I don't require it. I
shall never touch a hand of that family
again.”

“Allow me to observe that you have already
shown immense forbearance,” suggested
the discomfited Johnson.

“That is my part,” quietly answered
Frank. “I came here for that.”

“My God! these are new notions,”
thought the gentleman of an old school, as
he marched back to make his pacific communication.
“In my day men fought till
something happened. What the deuce is to
come of all these Quakerly whimwhams?”
he concluded, with a notion that good society
might not last his time out.

But the astonishment, and we might say
the grief, of the hoary hero were fruitless;
for once a duel between a Beaumont and a
McAlister ended without bloodshed; in a

few minutes more the oldfield was left deserted
and without a stain.

Tom Beaumont dashed homeward on
horseback, and on the way met his father,
also mounted. Although the grim old
knight had been able to send his son to
meet death, he could not help suffering
keen anxiety as to his fate. He did not
know that he had the gout that morning,
nor could he drink brandy enough to raise
his spirits. After passing two hours in patrolling
his garden, lighting and throwing
away a succession of cigars, and roaring to
Cato every few minutes for juleps, he called
for his fastest horse, thrust his swollen feet
into the stirrups, and galloped off to meet
the carriages. The father and son encountered
each other unexpectedly at the angle
of a wood.

“Ah, Tom!” exclaimed Peyton Beaumot,
grasping the young fellow's hand.
“All right, my boy?” Then, impelled by
a strange mixture of emotions, “God bless
you, my boy!”

Next followed some straightforward, business-like
inquiries as to the circumstances
of the meeting.

“You did well, Tom,” was his brief comment.
“On the whole, taking into view
the previous circumstances of the case, you
did well to let him off.”

In a subsequent conversation with Lawson
he expressed himself much more fully on
this point of the “letting off” of Frank
McAlister.

“By heavens, Tom is a trump!” he said
proudly. “I knew no son of mine would
do anything in bad taste. Tom did right in
sparing the fellow. And, Lawson, I am
more pleased with the fact than you can
imagine. Lawson, by heavens, it's a strange
thing, but I liked that fellow. I absolutely
felt an affection for him; and what 's more,
I can't quite get over it; I can't, by
heavens! It 's a most astonishing circumstance,
considering that brutal insult. Why,
just think of it; just think of it, Lawson.
Tied my son! Tied him like a thief, like a
nigger! Consider the outrage, Lawson;
how could he do it? I would n't have
thought he could tie one of my sons, or tie
any gentleman. I would n't have believed
it of him. I had a high opinion of that fellow.
I almost loved him. He had the
making of a gentleman in him. If he had
been born in any other family, he would
have become as fine a fellow as you could
wish to see. Well, badly as he has behaved
to Tom, I 'm glad he was n't hurt. I can
never forgive him, never. But I did n't
want him killed. No, Lawson, no.”

“He may do well yet,” suggested the
cunning Major. “You know, I suppose,
my dear Beaumont, that he fired in the air.”

“Yes. Tom told me. Of course Tom
told me everything. It speaks well for
the fellow, shows that he has good instincts,”
admitted Beaumont, magnanimously.
“Ashamed of his brutal insult,
you see,” he explained. “Willing to take
the legitimate consequences of it. On the
whole — by heavens! Lawson, I wish we
had never met, or never quarrelled.”

From Peyton Beaumont we return to
Frank McAlister. He would have been
glad to ride away alone from the duelling-ground,
but he had not expected to leave it
an able-bodied man or even a living one,
and had therefore neglected to bring a
horse. The result was that he made his
journey back to Hartland in the same carriage
with his second. It was a singular
tête-à-tête, an interview of gabble with revery.
The old fellow tattled in his unconsciously
ferocious way about the duel, and
about other duels, a long series of chivalrous
horrors, as ghastly and bloody as so
many ghosts of Banquo. The young fellow
heard not, answered not, and thought only
of Kate Beaumont. It was not rational
meditation; he did not, for instance, query
as to what might be the feelings of the girl
concerning this meeting between himself
and her brother; he was in no state to marshal
facts or to draw conclusions. His condition
was consciousness, rather than intelligence;
and his consciousness revolved
only about the idea that he loved.

How he had met her; how she had looked
on this occasion, and that, and the other;
what had been the tone of her voice, the
expression of her eyes, the meaning of her
gestures; — these things and many more
like them thronged through his spirit. Nor
were they mere remembrances; they were
tableaux and audiences; she was in his
presence. She advanced, and passed before
his face, and went sweetly out of sight,
only to come again. Except for an under
voice of deepest despair which whispered,
“Lost, lost!” the revery was indescribably
delicious.

“I have been happy,” he said in his soul.
“I thank her for the purest happiness that
I ever knew. No one, no event, no lapse
of time, can rob me of the fact that I once
knew her and was daily near her. I am
still bound, and always shall be bound, to
owe her greater gratitude than I can utter.
She created me anew; she has made me
nobler than I was; she lifted me up like a
queen out of mere egotism. Until I met
her I did not know that I had the power in
me to love. She has made me worthy to
be on the earth. Thanks to her, I have no
shame for myself; I am perfectly wretched,
but I possess my own respect. It is proper
and beautiful to exist only for another. She
has ennobled me.”

At this point he vaguely understood the

General to say: “Yes, sir. A man ought
to shoot his own brother, sir, if that brother
gives him the lie. He ought to shoot him,
as sure as you are born, sir. By gad! that 's
my solemn opinion, as a gentleman, sir.”

The next moment the young man was
lost again in his revery. “I have lived, for
I have loved,” he repeated from Schiller.
“To her beautiful soul be all the praise for
my redemption from selfishness. Thanks
be to Heaven also that she has been worshipped
in a manner worthy of her. It
may be that no other woman was ever honored
by such an adoration. Thank Heaven
that I have been deemed fit to confer upon
her this great distinction of entire love.
Merely in laying the whole of my heart at
her feet, I have honored both her and me.
Perhaps no other man was ever permitted
so to worship such a worshipful being. My
reward is sufficient, and it is more than I
deserve. I have lived to high purpose, and
I am content to die.”

Here again he caught a few words from
the interminably prattling General: “The
truth is, that old Hugh Beaumont, the father
of Peyton, you know, shot your great-uncle,
Duncan, quite unnecessarily. In my opinion
you would have been justified in remembering
that fact to-day, and acting accordingly.
Not to mention,” etc., etc.

Notwithstanding this savage reminiscence,
Frank remained in his lovelorn abstraction.
His mood was more potent than mere revery;
it rose to an exaltation which was almost
mania; he was as irrational as those
are who love with their whole being. His
passion was a possession, the object of
which had usurped the place of himself, so
that he was not only ruled but absorbed by
her. The power which she exercised over
his spirit was absolutely a matter of pride
with him. He wished to be known as her
adorer, her infatuated idolater, her helpless
slave. It needed all the natural gravity
and dignity of his character to prevent him
from babbling of her constantly to his
friends. In riding or walking he had wild
impulses to stop people, even though they
were perfect strangers, and say, “I am nobler
than you think me, for I love Kate
Beaumont.”

Let us not jeer at him; let us study him
reverently. If any man is clean of the
world, it is the lover; if any man is pure in
heart, it is the lover. There is no nobler
state of mind, with regard at least to merely
human matters, than that of a man who
loves with his whole being. The wife's
affection is equal; so is the mother's.
There is no diminution of honor in the fact
that this sublime and beautiful emotion is
in a measure its own reward. It is also its
own pain; think of the sorrow of rejection!
think of the agony of bereavement!

Nearing home, Frank met one of his
father's negroes on a horse which he had
been taking to the smith's. Muttering an
indistinct farewell to Johnson, he sprang
out of the carriage, mounted the animal
and set off at full speed toward Kershaw's,
not even remembering to send word of his
safety to his brother Bruce. He was wild
with impatience to look once more upon
the house which sheltered Kate, even though
he might not enter it. Fortune granted
him more than he hoped, for he met the
girl in the Kershaw barouche. She had
that morning heard of the duel, and she was
hurrying home to prevent it.

In his exaltation, his little less than madness,
Frank dashed up to the carriage and
stopped it.